last christmas
by distorted innocence
Summary: "I gave you my heart, and the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special." Something like that, anyway. — - The Marvils at Christmastime.


**part i.**

Christmas Eve at the Marvil house is oddly modest. Of course, on Christmas Day, presents will choke up the fireplace with bursts of colored wrapping paper and a general cozy chaos as guests flood in, but Eve's always a bit anticlimactic. It's one of the few days in the year Dylan's allowed to stay up all night, a porcelain bowl filled to the brim with popcorn clutched in her chubby hands, sometimes decorated with her mother's rings. She's allowed to take a few things from her mother as a Christmas treat.

She's been asked to pick her favorite movie many times, an adult peering down at the little eight-year-old with a teddy bear clutched in her hands, but she always patiently explains to them that it's impossible to decide. Often, she sees people critiquing the characterization, or the moral messages, or the plot, but they stream through her ears as meaningless babble.

Really, she likes it because, well, she's an eight-year-old who gets to snuggle with a teddy bear bigger than she is and with her mother on the couch, eyes glued to a television screen and only stopping to hand an emptied popcorn bowl or a half-full cup of hot chocolate to the maid. That's _fun._

This particular Christmas, her mother waits for her patiently in the doorway as she agonizes over which pajamas of her mother's she should wear. _It's such a difficult decision! s_he thinks, running her fingertips somewhat shyly over the fabrics—silk, satin, and a fair amount of things she can't identify—and finally plucks out a modest nightgown that falls to the floor in cascades and ruffles of Cinderella blue. Stopping to appraise herself in the mirror, she decides she would do better pulling off a Merida, with her red hair, but a bow isn't something she wants to bring to her Christmas film marathon. Anyway, it's pretty.

"Darling, you look adorable," coos her mother, scooping her up in her arms. She leans against the staircase railing and calls, "Henrietta! Bring up the popcorn, will you?" They've picked the balcony to watch the movies this year while the servants bustle around downstairs, preparing for the party the following day.

Carrying her outside, she sets her daughter down on the artfully shapeless couch before pouring herself a waterfall of cream into a cup of coffee. Sliding a DVD into the player, she sits back, just as Dylan blurts out, "Mom, what if it snows?"

Merri-Lee lifts a questioning eyebrow at the little girl in the overly big pajamas. "Snows? It won't, honey—the weather forecaster said so."

Dylan's lip protrudes slightly, wobbling as the maid arrives, setting a large teddy bear with a bow as big as her arm as well as a bowl of caramel popcorn on the coffee table. "But the weather forecaster lies a lot. And I _want _it to snow. I want to have a white Christmas!"

Merri-Lee thinks Westchester has seen more white Christmases than she'll need in her entire lifetime, having experienced the inconvenient but inevitable event of a driver struggling through the snow to get her to work. She despises snow; it's nothing more than an obstacle, a heap of slush that obnoxious kids mold so they can chuck snowballs at her while she stands in the cold, bundled up in a ridiculous-looking parka. Still, she knows that her daughter begs to differ—all kids do, really. "Well, maybe it will," she offers.

Her daughter doesn't look satisfied, but she quiets as the television whirs to life in a blur of pixels. _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas _is first, a wrinkled green hermit staring maliciously at them from the screen. Merri-Lee dislikes the idea of having to stare at this person for twenty-six minutes while monotonous rhymes drill themselves into her brain, but her daughter loves it.

And in fact, she gets her wish. Halfway through _Santa Claus is Comin' to Town, _her phone rings. It's a generic sound, as her ringtone won't change properly to the song she wants, no matter how hard she tries. She flips it open, and Effie, her agent, squeaks, "We've got a breakthrough, Ms. Marvil. Guess who's going to get her own show?"

Right then, the snow starts drifting down.

Dylan whoops in delight, trying to collect the thick flakes on her palms and sipping hot chocolate to keep her warm. It melts against her precious teddy bear and leaves dark spots on her mother's beautiful Cinderella pajamas, but she doesn't pay attention, turning her face upwards to watch the swirl of snow. "Mom! Mom, it's snowing!"

_Like I couldn't tell, _Ms. Marvel thinks somewhat viciously, but sighs, trying to keep her temper. Picking up her daughter and ignoring the flailing arms that are still trying to catch a few flakes, she says, "I'm sorry, sweetie, but I've got to go. Effie and I, we've made a major. . .something. Look, I promise I'll be back in a few hours."

The flailing arms go still, and Dylan stares at her in disbelief as her wide grin crumples. "You. . .you're gonna go?"

"I'll be back!" Ms. Marvil promises her hastily, even as borderline angry tears well up in the girl's eyes, and to quell the rising temper, she hurries over to the tiny Christmas tree in the corner the maid had set up. Giving her daughter a box hidden behind it, wrapped in paper a solid shade of red. "Here's your Christmas present, okay?"

She hurries through the balcony's doors as Dylan tears open the box. It's just a box of chocolates, her favorite company, but as the credits for _Santa Claus is Comin' to Town _begins to play, Dylan Marvil starts to cry.

**part ii.**

For the large part, it's against her will that Merri-Lee begins to find the Christmas films boring and rather a waste of time. Maybe it's the fact she hardly ever spends her time with her daughter on Christmas Eve anymore, preferring to talk perkily on her new show. _The Daily Grind _has kicked off with a bang, ratings soaring higher with every day. It's not that it's _fun, _but it takes precedence over "some silly holiday children's movies."

For the third time in a row, she finds herself making shallow excuses about work when Dylan asks her to stay for the marathon. She's gone from stop-motion-animated-films to just normal Christmas ones, saying the animation was for babies; sometimes, she doesn't even watch Christmas ones, really, just classic ones like _Mean Girls._ Her daughter accepts it with a brief nod and says, "Here, take this."

Merri-Lee just wants to be off in her car, dreaming about witty lines she'll rattle off during today's episode, but grimaces and takes the flimsily wrapped box she's handed. From the look on Dylan's face, it seems she's expected to open it right here and now, so she does, calling for a maid to pick up the scraps of wrapping paper.

It's a sweater—and an ugly one, at that, a lumpy and shapeless thing that clings in all the wrong places and has, of all things, reindeer stitched onto it. She's never seen such an ugly thing in her life, and she blurts out, "That's disgusting. What _is _it?"

Up until now, Dylan had been expressionless, but she snaps abruptly, "I _made _it!" Biting down hard on her lip, she glares at her mother, who's busy staring at the snow outside. "I worked on it for weeks!"

_Again? s_he's thinking, then notices the girl's simultaneously broken and angry expression. Maybe, once upon a time, she would have been delighted—it's the thought that counts, after all—and forced a smile and a few empty reassurances, but now, she just snaps back, "I can't believe I have a daughter who's this bad at knitting, then!" It's a hypocritical sentence, as she doesn't even know how to knit, but she can't find any regrets. All she can think is, _I seriously would _die _if I wore this to work._

Dylan stiffens, her face so red it looks like even her hair is getting darker as it curls around her shoulders. It seems as if she's about to shout something back, but instead, it's a little as if she wilts, or just gives up on her mother. "Go," she whispers, turning. "Just go."

Fleeing to her room as Ms. Marvil spits, "Gladly," right back at her, she storms into her bedroom. A few scraps of wrapping paper cling to her pajamas—it's with a start as she brushes them off that she realizes it's her mother's least favorite pair, a lumpy thing her grandmother had knitted who knows how many years back. And even the craftsmanship is much better than her own.

Wiping the tears out of her eyes, she notices that her phone is playing her ringtone—a Taylor Swift song. _Last Christmas, I gave you my heart / and the very next day, you gave it away._ She makes a note to change it. _Taylor Swift is such a whore, anyway, _she thinks savagely, even though she doesn't believe it. She just happens to hate everything and everyone right now.

Massie's calling her, apparently. Accepting the call, she presses the phone to her ear, trying not to sound like she's about to cry. "Hey, what's up?"

There's a few moments of silence, making her wonder if she's being prank called, but Massie finally says, "Dyl, you okay?" So she does sound like she's about to cry, she supposes bitterly.

"Just. Parents."

"C'mon, spill," Massie says, although it's not in a gossip-y way, just in a mildly curious _I can relate_ way. They've all ranted about parents before.

Dylan doesn't feel comfortable talking about it, knowing Massie would probably laugh at her bad knitting skills—she'd been taught by one of the maids—and sentimentality, but spills it all anyway. She can trust her, can't she? So she rants about all of it like the poor girl on the other end is her therapist.

By the end, Massie has no words, and there's an odd sound in the background that resembles clicking. Maybe she's hung up on her. She recovers, though, and says, "Your mom's a bitch." She makes a disgusted sound. "_Parents._ Seriously, though, what were you going to expect? She's Merri-Lee Marvil; living with her should be slightly dysfunctional."

Dylan hasn't been expecting the question, and it hits her hard, making her wonder why she hadn't thought of it before. Really, what _did _she expect? Famous people go through this all the time, their drama plastered in fat headlines on magazine covers—she just hadn't thought to consider her mother a celebrity before. Previously, she'd just been her mom.

If you can call that a mother, she thinks spitefully, and says, "Yeah. So, what did you call me for?"

Massie cheers up, losing the serious air, and chirps into the phone, "Well, the rest of us have been wanting to celebrate Christmas in a. . .special way. And it's a Friday this year. We're going to have a _super _huge holiday bash. . .what do you think, Dyl?"

Losing herself in an endless stream of enthusiastic conversation, she doesn't notice as her mother's car pulls out of the driveway and leaves in a squeal of tires.

**part iii.**

The year after that, she loses the movies, choosing instead to go to Massie's house with the rest of the Pretty Committee. It's when she's trying to pick out pajamas to pack that she tentatively wonders if she should take one of her mother's, peeking into the doorway to watch her mother doing her makeup in the mirror. Smears of bloodred lipstick decorate the perfect curve of her mouth, fascinating Dylan, but when the occupied woman fails to notice her, she asks, "Can I borrow some of your pajamas?"

"Oh!" squeaks Merri-Lee, slightly startled as she drops her tube of lipstick. Her eyes narrow upon seeing her daughter, but she leans calmly against her makeup table, plucking a brush with delicate bristles out of the display. "Of course—I won't be able to watch any movies, I have work, and—"

The girl's eyes tighten, and she purses her lips and replies, "Yeah, I know. Just save it." Stalking over to the closet, she pulls the door open and glances over the beautiful racks and racks of clothes. The one she really wants is right in the back, a lovely emerald green gown that falls just past her knees. She's had her eyes on it for years, but now, she's finally old enough and weighs enough that it isn't so big it looks ridiculous.

Merri-Lee frowns, watching as her daughter folds the pajamas carefully and tucks them under her arm. "Darling, it's a bit. . .don't you think it's a little revealing?"

"I'm _twelve,_" she says flatly in response, wondering if it's code for _it's too tight, _as in, _it makes you look fat. _It's _pajamas. _She's wanted to wear these for _years. _"I can wear this stuff, Mom. I'm not some innocent angel."

Still, there's a prickle of doubt in her voice, and a few more sentences will probably seal the deal. No. She wants to wear these, and anyway, they compliment her hair so well, not to mention red and green are Christmas colors.

Merri-Lee is still staring at her daughter with that odd look, and she seems sad. "'I'm not some innocent angel,'" she mutters to herself, setting down the makeup brush. "Oh, I suppose you've grown up." Then, "Do you still like _The Nightmare Before Christmas?"_

Uncomprehending, Dylan throws her hands up into the air, letting the clothes flutter to the floor. "Ehmagawd, Mom. I have to go. Massie will kill me for being late." Hastily picking up her clothes, she turns to exit.

"No!" she says somewhat violently, Ms. Marvil hurrying over to her daughter, her makeup display unattended. "No. I'm. . .look outside. You'll crash on the way to Massie's, you have the most incompetent driver when it comes to snow."

Snorting, Dylan observes the snow cynically, not at all caring to run outside and collect the flakes on her tongue. It's with a pinch to her heart that she notices her gigantic, somewhat ragged teddy bear sitting in the corner, unattended for years. It makes her wonder why the maid hadn't just dumped it in the trash. "The driver can do fine."

"I still have all those DVDs," her mother says, sounding firmer now. She puts an arm around her daughter's shoulders, who stares up in bewilderment. "At least half an hour?"

"But. . .but why?" Dylan asks, completely confused by this turn of events and half-wondering how to break it to Massie that she's not coming. The green pajamas have fluttered down to the floor again, and she bites her lip, wondering if her mother wants to skip out on work or something.

"_The Daily Grind_'s Christmas special is already finished, anyway," Merri-Lee says, "and I imagine I owe you that much." She runs to the closet and pulls something out—the ugly sweater that should have been tossed away. Less angry about last year's incident, albeit slightly bitter, Dylan observes it. It really is ugly. Sliding the sweater on top of her blue blouse, her mother offers a timid smile that isn't at all beaming with the confidence you'd usually expect.

"Okay," Dylan says, feeling mildly awkward, but it feels like something is being fixed. She picks up the pajamas again, and she manages a watery smile. "Thanks, Mom."

.

_well, i apologize about that questionable ending. merry christmas, all; i'm spending my time in asia cheerfully freezing myself to death. written for in the days of wonder on the coppertone wars fic exchange. also, there were two comments (the taylor swift one and the one about revealing clothes) that may make you think i support slut-shaming. i don't; it's the thoughts of the characters. also, note that while the song the title and summary are from ("last christmas" by taylor swift) is romantic, lines about hearts don't have to consist of romance, so this was not some sort of subtle incestuous shipping. c:_

_i don't own clique (and have no idea how christmas went down in-universe, as well having only read eight books). thanks for reading!_


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